
Class 
Book 



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z¥ Z 6 



Copyright^? 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



IN OTHER WORDS 



IN 
OTHER WORDS 



By 
FRANKLIN P. ADAMS 

AUTHOR OF 
" TOBOGGANING ON PARNASSUS " 




Garden City New York 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1912 



Copyright, 1912, by 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

All rights reserved, including that of 

translation into foreign languages, 

including the Scandinavian 



COPYRIGHT, I906, I908, BY KEPPLER & SCHWARZMANN 

Publishers of " Puck " 

COPYRIGHT, I9IO, BY SUCCESS MAGAZINE 

COPYRIGHT, I9IO, BY COLLIER'S WEEKLY 

COPYRIGHT, 191 1, BY CENTURY COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 19II, 1912, BY THE EVENING MAIL 

COPYRIGHT, I9II, 1912, BY METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE 



CU328247 



To 
THE W.-K. HUMAN RACE 

THIS BOOK IS HOPEFULLY 
DEDICATED 



Craving Your Attention 

Horace: Book I, Ode 32. 

"Poscimur. Si quid vacui sub umbra — " 

AD LYRAM 

Help me, my lute, if we have ever made 
Some deathless ode, some song to live for- 
ever, 

A verse to make them say: "Some serenade, 
Believe me, this her Flaccus guy is clever" — 

Come, Lesbian lyre, assist me with the verses 

To bring thee fame, to garner me sesterces. 

Stalling his motor-boat close to the shore, 
Thine erstwhile owner smote the strings to 
Bacchus 
And sang to Venus, in the midst of war, 
Be thou as kind to Mr. Q. H. Flaccus. 
Dear lute, I beg, implore, invoke thee do it; 
Give me thine aid, o lute! . . . Come, 
let's go to it. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Craving Your Attention vi 

From the Rome Herald, Nov. 29, 71 A. D 1 

T. R. to W. H. T 3 

The Costorliving 5 

It's Really Disheartening 7 

More Advice 9 

A Bid to a House-Party 11 

What Cut into Horace's Work ... 13 

Horace on Contentment 14 

"Simplicity" 16 

Getting Lydia's Number 17 

Spring Pome 19 

A Sealed Proposal 21 

Cheer Up, Postumus 22 

The Good Old Socialistic Days ... 24 

A Plea for the Present 25 

Indorsing Xanthias's Choice .... 26 

Horace to Maecenas 27 

"Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!" . . 29 

Thoughts on Matters and Things . . 30 

On an Upright Life 33 

The Stinging of V. Catullus, Esq. . . 35 

V. Catullus Said in Part 36 



Vll 



Contents 



¥*»B 



The Mathematics of Catullus ... 37 

Catullus to His Knockers .... 38 

Handing It to Cynthia 39 

The Beefing of S. Propertius, Esq. . 41 

Indorsing a w. k. Emotion .... 43 

Propertius Confesses 44 

Roman Innuendo 45 

To Julia, on June 21 46 

Martial's Bit of a Joke 47 

A Ballade of Known and Unknown Mat- 
ters 48 

The Translated Way 50 

The Height of Disagreeableness . . 53 

As to Eyes 54 

The Truth About the Spratts ... 55 

Campaign Thoughts 57 

Everybody's Overdoing It .... 59 

Baseball's Sad Lexicon 62 

To Myrtilla, on Opening Day ... 63 

A Ballplayer's Day 64 

Ever See Her? 65 

A Ballad of Baseball Burdens ... 66 

John Jones, Clerk . 68 

One More 69 

"And the Only Tune That He Could 

Play" t 

Thorns, Rifts, Clouds, Flaws, Blemishes, 

Etc 71 

"May Recover" 73 

As John Howard Payne Said . - ... 74 

For the Other 364 Dayi 75 



vm 



Contents 



PAGE 



Us Potes 76 

Footlight Motifs 77 

Revised 82 

The Lost Wheeze 8 3 

From an Awningless Sanctum ... 85 

"On Christmas Day in the Morning" 86 

From a Paragrapher's Garden of Verses 87 

Gilbert : - • • ; • 88 

Lines to Margaret, a Singing and Whis- 
tling Cook 8 9 

A Pathetic Bit of a Ballad .... 90 

Song of the Costofliving 9 1 

The Old Man's Discomforts .... 9 2 

The Fool • 94 

To the Wind: After Gilbert's "To the 

Terrestrial Globe" 95 

To a Lady Complaining of Solitude . 90 

The Pandean Is No Pipe 97 

"The Poems of Eugene Field" ... 98 

Success IQI 

Managerial Tradition i°3 

" Christmas Comes but Once a Year " . 104 

After Samuel Rogers IJ 4 

The Diplomaniacs II0 

Rondel XI 7 

To the Waltonian Bards "» 

Triolettuce Salad XI 9 

The Easy Giggle •••••••• I21 

The Ballade of the Northern Girl . . 123 

Lines on the Sabbath i 2 5 

"The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers" . 127 

ix 



Contents 

PAGE 

The Exile of Erin 129 

Of Course You Would 131 

True Comfort 133 

To Gelett Burgess 134 

Bacchanalian Songs 135 

On a Certain Propensity of Bootblacks 
to Toy with the Shoelaces of the 

Shinee 13° 

Christmas Cards 137 

Thanking One and All 141 

Lines in Appreciation of a Lady's Art . 143 

For Cummuters Only 144 

Inept Quotation's Artificial Aid . . 145 

Some Speeches 148 

No Trouble to Show Goods .... 150 



From the Rome Herald, Nov. 2% 1\ A. D, 

Martial: Book IX, Epigram 81. 

Though for my stuff my readers {all, 
A poet likes it not at all. 
But, pshaw! what time I give a feast 
The cook, perhaps, is pleased the least. 



IN OTHER WORDS 
T. R. to W. H. T. 

"/ was a king in Babylon 

And you were a christian slave. " 

Henley. 

Or ever the knightly fight was on, 
The skirmish of smear and smudge, 

I was a King in Washington 
And you were a circuit judge. 

I saw, I took, I made you great, 

Friendly I called you Will, 
And back in Nineteen Hundred and Eight, 

Out in Chicago, 111., 
I made the convention nominate, 

And now — the terrible chill. 

For many a sun has set and shone 

On the path we used to trudge 
When I was a King in Washington 

And you were a circuit judge. 

I passed the lie and you passed it back; 

You said I was all untruth; 
I said that honesty was your lack; 



In Other Words 

You said I'd nor reck nor ruth. 
You called me megalomaniac — 
I called you a Serpent's Tooth. 

And now the convention days are gone 
And the past is full of grudge; 

Yet — I was a King in Washington, 
And you were a circuit judge! 



The Costofliving: 

This is the costofliving — $$ 

This is the retailer 

That raises the costofliving. 

This is the wholesaler 
That soaks the retailer 
That raises the costofliving. 

This is the packer 
That sticks the wholesaler 
That soaks the retailer 
That raises the costofliving. 

This is the stockman 
That charges the packer 
That sticks the wholesaler 
That soaks the retailer 
That raises the costofliving. 

This is the farmer 
That stings the stockman 
That charges the packer 
That sticks the wholesaler 
That soaks the retailer 
That raises the costofliving. 



In Other Words 

This is the corn upon the farm 

Whose cost the farmer views with alarm; 

So he stings the stockman 

That charges the packer 

That sticks the wholesaler 

That soaks the retailer 

That raises the costofliving. 

This is the cow with the crumpled horn, 
That must be fed on the farmer's corn — 
The corn the farmer grows on the farm — 
The corn whose cost he views with alarm: 
So he stings the stockman 
That charges the packer 
That sticks the wholesaler 
That soaks the retailers 
That raises the costofliving. 

This the consumer all forlorn 

Who pays for the cow with the crumpled horn — 

The cow that feeds on the farmer's corn 

That grows so fine on the farmer's farm — 

The corn whose cost he views with alarm: 

So he stings the stockman 

That charges the packer 

That sticks the wholesaler 

That soakes the retailer 

That raises the costofliving. 



It's Really Disheartening: 

When Homer smote his you-know-what 

To sing about M. J. Ulysses, 
Old Constant Reader said 'twas not 

The thing to read to youths and misses. 
And Old Subscriber sent a note 

Whose words Hellenic I've forgotten — 
Translated, this is what he wrote: 

"Please can this Homer simp; he's rotten." 

WTien Q. Horatius penned a pome 

And put it in the Sabine Journal, 
Pro Bono Publico, of Rome, 

Wrote in: "This column is infernal. 
If that is humorous, good night! 

Don't tell me that you pay him money. 
W T hoever said this boob could write? 

Whoever told him he was funny?" 

And when a column, all in rhyme, 

In solid agate, signed "John Milton," 
Appeared, some cleped him "Quince" and 
"Lime," 

And said his stuff was very Stilton. 
When Avon's bard put on a play 

Those were who said: "He can't deliver, 
This William Shaxpur! Fade away! 

Good sooth, the fellow is a flivver!" 

7 



In Other Words 

His path is steep, his lot is hard, 

Who Rare and Wondrous Lines composes. 
Alas ! to be a famous bard 

Is not an ostermoor of roses! 
And if of those great poet-men 

Some folks would say: "This guy a shine 
is," 
What show have I? for now and then 

Their stuff was just as good as mine is. 



More Advice 

AD QCJINTIUM 

Horace: Book II, Ode n. 

"Quid bellicosus Cantaber et Scythes — " 

O Quintius, never mind the things 

Across the Adriatic; 
Let Scythian and Cantabrian kings 

Be never so emphatic, 
Our board and room and clothes are paid for; 
Why worry, then, what we were made for? 

As I have said a thousand times, 

(Please pardon my repeating. 
One has to, writing reams of rhymes.) 

The longest life is fleeting. 
(Bromidic and unesoteric — 
See Longfellow and Robert Heirick.) 

The flowers forget the vernal green, 

The moon has many phases. 
Why bother, then, the busy bean 

With the future's fogs and hazes? 
Nix on the worry! Us for Bacchus! 
You, Quintius, and your Uncle Flaccus. 
9 



In Other Words 

And while we're waiting for the drinks 

Here in the grotto shady, 
There may appear the well-known minx, 

That lovely Lyde lady, 
Who fixes up her hair so graceful — 
Grab it from me, she beats an ace full. 



10 



A Bid to a House-Party 

AD TORQUATUM 

Horace: Book I, Epistle 5. 

"Si poles Archiacis conviva recumbere lectis — " 

Torquatus, if you can recline 

On this cheap furniture of mine, 

If you are of a mind to dare 

My frugal vegetable fare, 

If six-year wine may pass your throat — 

Then come and visit this here pote. 

My house is clean, though far from sporty; 

I'll look for you about 5.40. 

Some years ago to-morrow morn 

Was old Augustus Caesar born. 

It is a legal holiday 

And so we needn't leave the hay 

Till noon. To-night we'll fool around 

Discussing light things and profound: 

Girls, poetry and aviation, 

And eke the future of the nation. 

11 



In Other Words 

What use is all my coin to me 
Without a friend or two or three? 
The guy who's cagey with his kale 
Should beat it quick to Bloomingdale. 
A little wine's the proper dope, 
It makes you talk and sing and hope, 
Peace it promotes, for who would bicker 
When plied with wine? Hooray for licker! 

The gifted author of this pome 
Shall tend to everything at home; 
The dishes will be clean and fine, 
And how the knives and forks will shine! 
Three other chaps I shall invite 
(Five-handed games — are they all right?) 
Nor care nor woe shall agitate us, 
Come on, old scout, come on, Torquatus! 



12 



What Cut into Horace's Work 

AD MAECENATEM 

Horace, Epode XIV. 

"Mollis inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis 
Oblivionem scnsibus — " 

"What is the cause of this tardy inspiring — 
Too many juleps traversing your throat? 

Thus, my Maecenas, your ceaseless inquiring. 
Chop it, old top, it arouses my goat. 

Blame not the stuff that is sacred to Bacchus; 

Cupid's the reason that pome isn't done. 
He is some deity, flip it from Flaccus, 

Keeps me from finishing work I've begun. 

Well, Old Anacreon had the bacillus; 

Burning affection kept him on the rack. 
He couldn't work when he thought of Ba- 
thyllus 

(Read what was written on that by Anack). 

As to your Beautiful Lady, Maecenas, 
Helen herself was no fairer a frail. 

Phryne the flirt, but consid'able Venus, 
Keeps me from work for The Evening 
Mail. 

13 



Horace on Contentment 

Book II, Ode 18. 
" Non cbur neque aureum 

Mea rcnidct in domo lacunar — " 

Within my modest home nor ivory gleams, 

Nor in my room a golden ceiling glitters; 
No pillars mine from Africa's extremes, 

No purple spun by lovely lady-knitters. 
I'm poor but honest, and — you'll give me 

credit — 
Some poet, too. Some poet's right; you said 
it. 

For further favors I do not implore 
The gods above nor any human being; 

My Sabine farm's enough. I ask no more. 
I never argue with the fates' decreeing. 

Day follows day. I never dared to doubt it. 

Suppose I did? What could I do about it? 

And yet the very marble newly hewn, 
The very stone you gaze at, eager, merry, 

That stone may lie above you very soon 
In Forest Hills, the well-known ceme-tery. 

And still, instead of charity and penance, 

You raise the rent and disposses your tenants. 
14 



Horace on Contentment 

But stay ! Despite your wondrous wealth and 
fame, 
None is so sure as Plato, so rapacious — 
You cannot beat, you cannot tie his game; 
The grave that yawns for rich and poor is 
spacious. 
(Translator's Note: Q. H. was euphemistic. 
They used to say. / call him socialistic.) 



15 



"Simplicity" 

AD PUERUM 

Horace: Book I, Ode 38. 

"Persicos odi, puer apparatus — " 

The Persian pomp and circumstance are 

things I do not like; 
I shall not buy a motor-car while I possess a 

bike; 
I will not buy a Panama to place upon my 

head, 
A simple sennitt bonnet, boy, purchase for 

me instead. 

For such a thatch will do for you as it has 
done for me — 

An ordinary straw hat, for a dollar thirty- 
three. 

Then to the coolest bar in town for some 
Milwaukee liquor 

Where I may watch the ball-game — as it 
comes over the ticker. 



16 



Getting Lydia's Number 

AD LYDIAM 

Horace: Book I, Ode 8. 

" Lydia, die, per omnis — " 

Lydia, by the gods above, 

Tell me why, O maid magnetic, 

You must ruin with your love 
Him that used to be athletic? 

Tell me why, O maid magnetic, 
Sybaris will not cavort — 

Him that used to be athletic, 
Him that used to be a sport? 

Sybaris will not cavort 
On the field or in the river — 

Him that used to be a sport 
With the quoit or with the quiver! 

On the field or in the river, 
On the court or on the links, 

With the quoit or with the quiver — 
You're his Jonah, you're his Jinx! 

On the court or on the links 
Sybaris was once a wonder, 

You're his Jonah, you're his Jinx — 

Why delight to drag him under? 

17 



In Other Words 

Sybaris was once a wonder 
You must ruin with your love. 

Why delight to drag him under? 
Lydia, by the gods above! 



18 



Spring: Pome 

AD SEXTIUM 
Horace : Book II, Ode 4. 
"Solvitur acris hiems grata — " 

The backbone of winter is shattered to pieces; 
The breezes are balmy that blow from the 
west; 
The farmer his cows from the stable releases; 
The ploughman gets up from his fireside 
domest; 
No more are the meadows all icy and snowy; 
Come columns on Mathewson, Sweeney and 
Kling; 
The strawberry shortcake is heavy and 
doughy — 

'Tis Spring! 

Now Venus, the w. k. Cytherean, 

Cavorts Isadorably under the moon, 
Assisted by choruses gracile, nymphean, 

She dances a measure that's wholly jejune. 

'Tis time to divert one's estraying attention 

To bonnets embowered with every old 

thing — 

Fruits, myrtle and parsley — again I must 

mention 

'Tis Spring! 
19 



In Other Words 

'Tis time for the sacrifice sacred to Faunus — 
He may get our lambkin, he may get our 
goat. 
O Sextius, ere death shall have wholly with- 
drawn us, 
Take this from Horatius, your favorite pote; 
Soon Pluto will call you, at some unforeseen 
time, 
You'll go, be you journalist-jester or king, 
You can't get away from it. But, in the 
meantime, 

'Tis Spring! 



20 



A Sealed Proposal 

AD CHLOEN 

Horace: Book I, Ode 23. 

"Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloe — " 

Nay, Chloe, dear, forget your fear, 

Nor like a frightened fawn outrun me; 
No savage I to horrify — 

You shouldn't shun me. 

Come, Chloe, queen, you're seventeen; 

There's many a precedent to back us. 
Why shouldn't you be Mrs. Q. 
Horatius Flaccus? 



21 



Cheer Up, Postumus 

AD POSTUMUM 

Horace, Book II, Ode 14. 

" Eheut fugaces, Postume, Postume — " 

O Postumus, dear Postumus, Old Father 
Time's a sprinter, 

The summer of my life is spent, approaches 
now the winter; 

Nor all my Wit nor Piety, to quote Omar Fitz- 
gerald, 

Can keep my obit from appearing in the Sabine 
Herald. 



If for a daily sacrifice you killed three hundred 

cattle, 
Think you that it would keep from you the 

Dread and Final Rattle? 
Nix! Though you build eight colleges and 

lib'ries eighty-seven, 
You can't avoid what Rhyme demands I 

designate as Heaven. 
22 



Cheer Up, Postumus 

Your home, your wife, your family, your 

uncles, ay! and your aunts — 
You'll have to leave 'em all behind. (Have 

you enough insurance?) 
And O, the cobwebbed Caecuban now aging 

in your cellar 
You'll have to deed to some one who's a nice, 

deserving feller. 



23 



The Good Old Socialistic Days . 

IN SUI SAECULI LUXURIAM 

Horace: Book II, Ode 15. 

"Jam pauca aratro jugera regiae — " 

With skyscrapers building a dozen a day, 
I am anxious, I View- with- Alarm; 

And I'd like to know how there'll be room for 
the plow, 
And what's going to become of the farm. 

Time was when the olive was w. k., 

Now myrtle and violet are in. 
I urge on this nation of Rome, Conservation — 

This waste is a shame and a sin. 

When Romulus reigned and when Cato was 
king, 

Conditions were never so tough; 
The Morgans and such hadn't any too much, 

And the poorest had more than enough. 

Return once again, O ye days that I sing, 

When Labor was wearing a crown ! 
O life was more spacious, grab this from 
Horatius, 
When Rome was a Socialist town. 
24 



A Plea for the Present 

AD LEUCONOEM. 

Horace: Book I, Ode n. 

"Tu ne quaesieris, scire nefas — " 

Be not, I pray, so curious 
For knowledge; it's injurious 

To know about the future 

And compute your 
Every chance. 
'Twould be a source of pain to you 
To find what years remain to you 

To know your length of tether 

And the weather 
In advance. 

Life? Don't have such a thirst of it; 
The best you get's the worst of it ! 

You can't be here forever, 
They assever. 
Watch your step ! 
While I've been oratorical 
Pa Tempus (metaphorical) 

Has, as it were, been guying 
Me by flying. 
— Are you hep? 
25 



Indorsing Xanthias's Choice 

AD XANTHIUM PHOCEUM. 

Horace: Book II, Ode 4. 

"Ne sit ancillae tibi amor pudori, 
Xanthia Phoceu!" 

Don't let your yearning for your cook, 

O Xanth, give you the willies. 
Remember how Briseis, though a slave, 

aroused Achilles; 
The Telamonian Ajax young Tecmessa made a 

hit with; 
And Agamemnon had a maid whom he was 

awful smit with. 
Why, I would give you 8 to 5 — and I am far 

from gambly — 
That Phyllis is descended from some fine old 

Southern fam'ly. 
Accept it from the occupant of this here con- 
ning steeple: 
As nice a girl as she is must have come from 

Lovely People. 
Look at her arms — they're perfect! So the 

beauty of her face is; 
And — as an artist — I indorse her — well, 

her other graces. 
Nay, be not jealous of the bard, my Xanthias! 

Remember 
Your uncle will be forty-one the seventh of 

September. 

£6 



Horace to Maecenas 

THE BARD ASKED HIS PATRON FOR BASEBALL TICKETS 

Maecenas, in many an ode 
I've jollied and flattered and praised you, 
In metre Glyconic, alcaic, adonic, 

I've mentioned you dozens of times. 
The virtues that I have bestowed 
On you! and the heights where I've raised 
you! 
You pander and pet me, but what does 
it get me? 
I want some reward for my rhymes. 

I've called you a great little guy 
Right n. p. r. m., top o' colyum; 
I've pinned some verbenas on you, Bill 
Maecenas, 
And all that I got was a drink — 
A pint of Old Caecuban Rye! 
My verses to you'd fill a volume. 

You used to command me, but now, 
y'understand me, 
I've quit being Marcus O'Gink. 
27 



In Other Words 

Maecenas, you get me, I hope. 
I want a reply to my queries; 
They're plain and vocalic, in 8-point 
italic, 
And clear as a midsummer sky 
This, then, is the drift of my dope: 
Do I get a seat for The Series? 
Am I to be present next Sat. if it's 
pleasant? 
Maecenas, I pause for reply. 



28 



"Good-by, My Lover, Good-by!" 

AD PYRRHAM 
Horace: Book I, Ode 5. 
"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa — " 

pretty Pyrrha, false as fair, 

For whom dost thou do up thy hair, 
Thy crown of gold, thy shining tresses? 
What gracile youth gives thee caresses? 

Alas ! How often shall he find 

The faithlessness of womankind ! 

As who should say, in utter wonder, 

" How fair it was ! Who thought of thunder? " 

Ah — wretched they that think thee fair, 
Enmeshed in thy seductive snare ! 

1 vow, by Neptune, ne'er to woo thee 
Again, for I am jerry to thee. 



40 



Thoughts on Matters and Things 

AD GROSPHUM 

Horace: Book II, Ode 16. 
"Otium divos rogat itnpotenti 
Pressus jEgao — " 

Grosphus, a guy who's sailing in a tempest 
On the Aegean when the moon is hidden — 
He wants a rest, while stewing in his state- 
room, 
Weary and seasick. 

Weary of war, what do the Thracians yearn 

for? 
What seek the Medes, with quivers full of 

arrows? 
What can't you buy with purple, gold or 

rubies? 
Rest is the answer. 

Not Morgan's cash, nor Rockefeller's money, 
No blue-and-brass can drive away the willies 
Caused by the care of elegant apartments, 
Rugs and swell ceilings. 
30 



Thoughts on Matters and Things 

Wise the gazabe upon whose simple table 
Old-fashioned truck like salt-and-pepper 

castors 
Yet may be found. His bean is never both- 
ered — 
Sleeps like a hallboy. 



Why do we fuss for one thing and another? 
Why do we hike to Saranac or Newport? 
How can a human leave himself behind him? 
Answer: He cannot. 



Worry can get a guy on the Olympic; 
Worry can chase a colonel in the Army; 
Swift as the wind, to use a new expression — 
Care is some sprinter. 



Merry and bright, the citizen who's cheerful 
Won't worry much about to-morrow's break- 
fast. 
"No one," he smiles, "who faces Time the 
pitcher 
Wallops one thousand." 



There was Achilles, cut off in his twenties, 
And, an contraire, Tithonus was a hundred: 
I may be lucky; you might be run over 
Most any morning. 
31 



In Other Words 

You've got a farm with fancy sheep and 

heifers; 
You've got a mare all curry-combed and 

glossy; 
Purple silk socks and purple fancy weskits — 

You're a swell dresser. 

And what has Fate, the undeceitful, slipped 

me? 
Only a small apartment out in Harlem, 
And, with a trick of turning snappy Sapphics, 
Scorn for the roughnecks. 



On an Upright Life 

AD ARISTIUM FUSCUM 
Horace: Book I, Ode 22. 
[Those whom the original verbiage may confuse are 
advised to read only the italics: those who detest our 
efforts may read only Q. H. Flaccus's words, set of 
course in Roman; and the rest may combine them.] 

(Integer vitae) A man who's on the level, 
(Non eget . . . arcu) He needn't have a 
fear; 
(Nee venenatis) Not arrows of the devil 
(Fusee, pharetra) Can harm a conscience 
clear — 

(Sive per Syrtes) Whether he's in Peoria, 
(Sive facturus) New York or Newtonville, 

(Caucasum vel) East Orange or Emporia, 
(Lambit Hydaspes) Or Pocahontas, III. 

(Namque me . . . lupus) For once, when 
I was singing, 
(Dum meam . . . Lalagen) A wolf 
came up to me; 
(Terminum curis) He heard my lyric ringing, 
(Fugit inermem) And fled immejitlee. 
33 



In Other Words 

(Quale portentum.) Believe me, he was some 
wolf, 

(Daunias latis) Not wood from Noah's Ark, 
(Nee Jubae tellus) No little Daunian bum wolf 

(Arida nutrix) Like those in Central Park. 

(Pone me, pigris) O put me on the prairie, 
(Arbor aestiva) Or let me hire a hall, 

Quod latus mundi) Set me upon Mt. Airy, 
(Jupiter urget) Or anywhere at all. 

(Pone sub curru) Still I, on the equator, 
(Solis . . . negata) At ninety in the 
shade, 
(Dulce ridentem) Shall love — a poor trans- 
lator — 
(Dulce loquentem) My sweetly smiling 
maid. 



34 



The Stinging of V. Catullus, Esq. 

(Which is his 70th Ode, dry-cleaned and rekalsomined) 

Myrtilla says that there is none 

So strong, so fine, so cavalierly, 
From New Rochelle to Evanston, 
As yours sincerely. 

She says that no one else is half 

So utterly attractive to her, 
That she'd give Jove himself the laugh 
If he should woo her. 

I say she SAYS so . . . Ah, I find 

The words of Eve's most lovely daughter 
Ought to be written on the wind 
In running water ! 



35 



V. Catullus Said in Part: 

(Being a shy at the Fifty-first Ode.) 

Whose seat is opposite to thine, 
My Lesbia, seems to me divine; 
For it were heaven to be so near thee, 
To gaze upon thee and to hear thee. 

But, lowlife lyrist that I am, 

I see thee, and am like a clam; 

My tongue is mute; my heart's a lead one; 

Sight, hearing fail me — I'm a dead one! 



36 



The Mathematics of Catullus 

Ode 7. 
"Quaeris quot mihi basiationes 
Tuat, Lesbia, sint satis, super que?" 

Lesbia, you would have me state 

What the number is 
Of the times to osculate. 
Let your pote approximate, 

Namely, t'wit, and viz: 

Lesbia, count the sands that lie 

On the spicy shore; 
Sum the stars that in the sky 
Coruscate; and multiply 

That by thousands more — 

That, sweetest of your sex, 

Fails the full amount. 
Let the total number vex 
All the jealous rubbernex 

Trying to keep count! 



87 



Catulkts to His Knockers 

AD AURELIUM ET FURIUM 
Ode 16. 

If now and then I spill a pome 

That seems too peppery for a paper 

Subscribers take into The Home — 
Too filled with chili sauce and caper — 

Because I'm fresh and will not shut up 

You think that I'm an awful cut-up. 

A poet in the major league 

Must lead a life above suspicion, 

Though he may write of love, intrigue, 
Society and prohibition. 

His stuff has got to be so snappy 

That it will make all ages happy. 

Cease, lowlifes, then, to lamp my line; 

Your knocking never shall upset me. 
I lyricize of love and wine, 

And those who care for such will get me. 
And you who don't — oh, yes, I mean you, 
Aurelius, Furius — I'll bean you! 



38 



Handing It to Cynthia 

Propertius: Book II, Elegy 5. 
"Hoc verumst, tola te Jerri Cynthia Roma 
Et non ignota vivere nequitia?" 

O Cynthia, tell me, is it true 

That you're not acting fit to print? 

That Roman clubdom talks of you 
And whispers things I may not hint? 

What has this gossip of the street meant? 

Do I deserve that sort of treatment? 

Tush! I shall seek some other skirt 
Who loves to lamp her printed name 

In poems written by Propert. 
Me for a grateful kind of dame. 

Before you get a chance to con me, 

I'll do it — while the peeve is on me. 

For lovers' quarrels disappear 

As clouds before the southern wind, 

Wherefore I say, let's cut it here, 
Before we knot the ties that bind. 

You'll weep and wail and sob and sorrow, 

But you'll forget it all to-morrow. 

39 



In Other Words 

I shall not biff you with a brick 
Nor pull your hair. I scorn to spleen. 

I leave such actions to the hick 
Who wears no laurel on his bean. 

Far subtler you shall find my curses; 

Your cheek shall pale at these here verses ! 



40 



The Beefing of S* Propertius, Esq* 

AD TULLUM 

Book I, Elegy i. 

"Cynthia prima suis miserum me cepitocellis — " 

Cynthia first and the wonderful eyes of her 
Taught me the meaning of Love and 
Romance; 
Now I have sung to the stars and the skies of 
her — 
Love has diluted the pride of my glance. 

Ah! 'tis a year, yet the madness diminishes 

Never a fraction, a tittle, or jot, 
Though I anticipate well what the finish is, 

Though I bewail my unfortunate lot. 

Tullus, Milanion traveled the universe 
Till Atalanta was thrall to his heart, 

Futile my pleading and vain is my tuny verse, 
Zero's the sum of my amorous art. 

Witches that lure by some sorcery-ritual 
Luna right down from the regular sky, 

I shall concede that your power is habitual 
An ye make Cynthia paler than I ! 
41 



In Other Words 

And, my friends who have warned me too 
tardily, 

Let me but utter the truth in my mind, 
I'll endure iron and suffer foolhardily . . . 

Luck, wedded friends I am leaving behind! 

No luck for me . . . Here is counsel 
gratuitous : 

Cleave to your true love forever plus aye; 
Else, if your path be a trifle circuitous, 

How you'll remember my words of to-day! 



42 



Indorsing a w« k* Emotion 

AD TULLUM 
Propertius: Book I, Elegy 14. 
"Tu licet abjectus Tibernia molliter unda — " 

Though by the Tiber you recline, 

Luxurious, inert, supine, 

Drinking five quarts of Lesbian wine, 

Or six. 
I'm in the know, grab this from me: 
That, and the wealth of Old Johndee 
Plus seven multiplied by three, 

Is nix. 

Nope. Me for Love. When I'm with Cynth, 
I, modest writer of this Plinth, 
Am jutht ath good ath any printh; 

And, say, 
If she should suddenly grow cold, 
What then would help Pierp Morgan's gold? 
By millions could I be cajoled? 

Nay, nay! 



43 



Properties Confesses 

AD DEMIPHONEM 
Book II, Elegy 18. 
"Scis here mi multas pariter placuisse puellas. 
Sets mihi, Demophoon — " 

You know, my Dem, that each P. M. I comb the 
gay Rialto 
(Posterity will say I was a James Buchanan 
Brady, 
And any frail can have my kale, soprano or 
contralto — 
You're c. to k. the reason why my theme is 
only Lady. 

Tush: ask a guy the reason why the days are 
short in winter, 
And ask him why is water wet and why's a 
ballet dancer, 
And where's the snow of long ago, or ask why 
is a printer — 
Old top, it's just my temp'rament. There 
ain't no other answer. 



44 



Roman Innuendo 

Martial: Book I, Epigram 72. 

O Fidentinus, when you steal — 

My words are chosen and impartial — 

My stuff, it is a phony deal 
You put across on M. V. Martial. 

Thus Aegle thinks the teeth she wears, 

So sozodontalish and pearly, 
Are hers; thus black Lycoris swears, 

Daubed with white lead, she is Some Girlie. 

Bard of the Mrs. Harris school, 

(This stanza should be double-leaded), 

As you're a poet now, so you'll 
Have lots of hair when you're bald-headed! 



45 



To Julia, on June 2 J 

[In the Elizabethan manner.] 

3Ti)0u ae&fst of me tabp to*riap, 
$®2 Ifulta, I Do lobf t&rr moc ; 

9nD tbou art fain to babe mrr sate 
MXhtuiou 3 am affecteH ©or. 

an tl>ou toouIDist toit t|>e reaooun of 
ST#pj3cIf to*Da? bering more Dere 

STfcan overtime, it t0, mp lobr, 
4I$e Ionceet Dap of a!! the per*. 



46 



Martial's Bit of a Joke 

Epigrams II, 38. 

Linus, you are C2k 
What I grow from day to day 
At my Sabine spot suburban. 
Pipe — and paste it in your turban: 

Try it on your piccolo, 
Linus: this is what I grow: 
(Get my snappy repartee, you) 
Happy that I do not see you. 



47 



A Ballade of Known and Unknown 
Matters 

By Francois Villon 

[Editor's Note: One of the things we know less 
than we do others is how to translate French. And so, 
to translate another of Mons. Villon's refrains, "We cry 
you mercy, every one. "] 

I'm not a simp; I'm not a joe; 

I'm on when cream is full of flies. 
By what they wear I always know 

A lot about these dressy guys. 

I know the black from sunny skies; 
I know a staller from a pep ; 

I know the phony from the prize — 
But to myself I am not hep. 

I'm jerry to the fashions, bo; 

I cop the clerics by their ties; 
I know the chieftain from Poor Lo, 

And cherry tarts from blueb'ry pies. 

I know the con men and the Cys; 
I know "Both gates!" and "Watch your 
step!"; 

I know the Bourbons from the ryes — 
But to myself I am not hep. 
48 



A Ballade of Matters 

A dray is not a tally-ho; 

(That is a thing I realize). 
I know 1 6 from Double-O, 

Ben Davises from Northern Spies. 

I know some frails who have some eyes; 
I know the honey from the skep; 

I know just how to balladize, 
But to myself I am not hep. 



Prince, I am Jeremiah Wise, 

Clutch it from me, that is my rep: 

Excepting only this revise: 
Bui to myself I am not hep. 



49 



The Translated Way 

I 

" Wenn ich in deine Augen seh\ 

So schwindet all mein Leid und weh " 

When I into your eyes do see 
So goes away my woe from me, 
And, too, when I your mouth do kiss 
So gains my health a benefice. 

When I upon your bosom lie 
It comes o'er me like joy from sky, 
And when you speak it: "I love thee! 
So must I weep quite bitterly. 

II 

"Ich nab' im Traum geweinet." 

I have in a dream been weeping, 

Medreamt thou didst lie underground, 

Then wakened I up and the tears flowed 
Still down from my cheek all around. 

I have in a dream been weeping, 
Medreamt thou didst me forget, 

Then wakened I up, I continued 
Crying long, bitterly yet. 
50 



The Translated Way 

I have in a dream been weeping, 

Medreamt thou wert to me yet good, 

Then wakened I up and still always 
My tears did come down in flood. 

Ill 

"Hor ich das Liedchen klingen, 
Das einst die Liebste sang," 

Hear I the songlet singing 
That once the dearest sang, 

From out my breast upspringing 
There comes wild painful pang. 

Impels me one dark languish 
That high wood to attain^ 

Dissolves in teardrops' anguish 
My extraordinary pain. 

IV 

"Was will die einsarae Thraene?" 

What wants the teardrop single? 

She mists my glance with pains. 
She back from olden times yet 

Within mine eye remains. 
She had many glittering sisters 

Who all have taken flight, 
With my torments and my gladnesses 

Dissolved they in wind and night. 
Like clouds have disappeared, also, 

The diminutive stars so blue 
That in every torment and gladness 

My heart would smile into. 

51 



In Other Words 

Oh, likewise my love has vanished 

Like to a trifling sigh, 
Though old, individual teardrop, 

Now too, disappear, pray I! 



52 



The Height of Disagreeableness 

A window rattling in the night 
When I am fain for sleep 

Gives me, I own, a sort of fright, 
And makes my flesh to creep. 

A discord jars my very soul; 

A peach-skin makes me feel 
As low within the depths of dole 

As a dentist's emery wheel. 

The brakes upon a Broadway car; 

A cat; a crying child; 
The filing of a saw — these are 

Some things that drive me wild. 

But of all creepy things accursed, 
Of various kinds and brands, 

I hold this as the very worst: 
A barber with cold hands. 



58 



As to Eyes 

Lady, better bards than I, 

Poets of an elder day, 
Seemed to love to versify 

On "her eyes," or blue or gray. 

'T is an oft-recurrent theme 
For the bards who rhapsodize; 

Not a one but used to dream 
Of the loveliness of eyes. 

Shelley, Tennyson and Keats, 
Swinburne, Byron, Moore and Burns 

All had visual conceits, 
All had various optic yearns. 

Far from me to mimimize 

Elder, better bards, except 
This: they spoke of lady's eyes 

Haunting them what time they slept. 

Envy I those troubadours. 

I am such a helpless thrall, 
Lady, when I think of yours, 

I — I cannot sleep at all. 



54 



The Truth About the Spratts 

As to the meat that was upon 
The J. Spratts' bill-of-f are — 

Now, Mrs. Spratt liked hers well done 
While Jack preferred his rare. 

Jack Spratt liked lots of light, 

His wife desired it dim, 
For her the shaded lamp and low — 

The 32s for him. 

Jack Spratt liked lots of air, 
All windows opened wide, 

While Mrs. S. detested draughts — 
"This flat is cold!" she cried. 

Jack Spratt liked comedies. 

The missus liked to weep 
At dismal dramas, such as put 

Her lawful spouse to sleep. 

John Spratt, he hated bridge; 

His consort was a fiend. 
Who always would suggest a game 

Whenever friends convened. 

55 



In Other Words 

J. Spratt liked keeping house, 
His wife preferred to board. 

"Nothing like that for Colonel Spratt ! : 
Declared her liegest lord. 

Jack Spratt was all for prose, 
His wife was all for rhyme; 

And so betwixt them both, you see, 
They had a helova time. 



56 



Campaign Thoughts 

This is a presidential year. 

(An unassailable reflection.) 
"Things will be better," so we hear, 
"After election." 

Now comes the questing of the Vote, 

The Call to Arms, the Appeal to Reason, 
The Keynote Speech, the Clarion Note — 
This is the season 

When everywhere and roundabout, 

From coast to coast, and vicy-versy, 
The candidates will speak and spout, 
Sans fear or mercy; 

When from the Peerless Pines of Maine 

To California's Pebbly Beaches, 
We are enthralled by the campaign, 
And many speeches. 

Perhaps I ought to add "enthralled," 

(Cf. line 3, above tetrastich) 
As Mr. Ward once might have drawled 
Was wrote sarkastick. 
57 



In Other Words 

And therefore I demand a word, 

A message to This Glorious Nation. 
I crave the right of being heard 
On Conservation. 

On Conservation: Not of trees 

Of waterways, or fish, or horses — 
Of something greater far than these: 
Human Resources 

Resources wasted in campaigns, 

In oratory dry and juiceless. 
The waste of energy and brains 
Strikes me as useless. 

For him I'd vote who said "Enough! 

I scorn the terrible traditions 
Of the campaign. I leave that stuff 
To politicians. " 

That's all. I might do five or six 

More stanzas, but I find it dreary. 
Do you care much for politics? 
They make me weary. 



58 



Everybody's Overdoing It 

[Provoked by having heard, in a single week, "That 
Beautiful Tune, " "Alexander's Ragtime Band, " "That 
Swaying Harmony," "Banjo Tunes," "That Mesmer- 
izing Mendelssohn Tune," "Play Dat Barbershop 
Chord, " " Rum Turn Tiddle, " "Pick, Pick, Pick on the 
Mandolin," "That Haunting Melody," "That Coon- 
town Quartette, " "I Love to Hear an Irish Band Play 
on St. Patrick's Day," "That Slippery Slide Trom- 
bone," "The Ragtime Violin," "That Mysterious 
Rag," "Mello-Cello Melody," "That Raggedy Rag," 
"That Chicken Glide," "That Dramatic Rag," "That 
Italian Serenade" and "Brass Band Ephraim Jones."] 



Whenever I go to a vo-da-vil show — 

A thing that I frequently do — 
The stunts that I see which are pleasing to me 

Are painfully, fearfully few. 
The acrobats eight are an act that I hate; 

The monkeys and dogs I detest. 
And the comedy kind that are known as re- 
fined 

Are as dull as an almanac jest. 
But of all the sad things that variety brings 

The worst of the wearisome throng 
Is the fury and craze of these "musical" days: 

The song that entreats for a song. 
59 



In Other Words 

And when some one begins to demand violins, 
Or "That Sinewy So-and-So Strain," 

I want to get out, and, departing, to shout 
The following earnest refrain: 



CHORUS 

Cut out asking for that ragtime song 

As played by that melodious coon ! 
Cease to bellow for that syncopated 'cello ! 

Quit teasing for that tremulous tune! 
Stop that yearning for that raggedy rag ! 

Stop asking for that glidey guff! 
Cut out this thing of begging folks to sing, 

And cut out the " Please-Play " stuff! 



I've heard them demand a harmonica band; 

I've heard people crave a cornet; 
And even "Play some on that old kettle- 
drum!" 

Or "Fillip that flageolet!" 
I've heard singers long for that "Love's Old 
Sweet Song, " 

And yell for ''That Old Time Quadrille"; 
I've heard 'em insist on Puccini and Liszt, 

And yearn for that Trovatore trill; 
They ask for Bellini, Balfe, Wagner, Rossini, 

The while, in unscrupulous zeal. 
The people who "write" a new song in a night 

Grow rich on the tunes that they steal. 
60 



Everybody's Overdoing It 

And that's why I moan in this querulous tone, 
And that's what is deep in my heart; 

And if one should beseech me to offer a speech, 
I'd do it, responding, in part: 

CHORUS. 

Cut out asking for that "Magic Flute," 

And that "Tannhauser" overture! 
Cease to yell for that "William Tell,' , 

And "The Bride of Lammermoor!" 
Stop that music-hunger all around, 

Plenty is quite Enough. 
Stop your praying for incessant playing, 

And cut out the " Please-Sing " stuff! 



61 



Baseball's Sad Lexicon 

These are the saddest of possible words: 

"Tinker to Evers to Chance." 
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds, 

Tinker and Evers and Chance. 
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, 
Making a Giant hit into a double — 
Words that are heavy with nothing but 
trouble: 

"Tinker to Evers to Chance." 



62 



To Myrtilla, on Opening; Day 

Myrtilla, ere the season starts, 
Or e'er the primal ball be thrown 

If you would win this callous heart's 
Affection for your very own, 

This counsel, blooming, fresh and frondent — 

Accept it from your correspondent. 

Back in the days of Old Cap Anse 
'Twas reckoned cute to spoof a dame, 

And famed was her incognitance 
About the so-called national game; 

And comment feminine was silly ._ 

That was before your day, Myrtilly. 

For, now, Myrtilla, I admit 

Your knowledge far transcends mine own; 
You know an error from a hit — 

A quaver from a semitone; 
You never say "How small the bat is!" 
You never have to ask who that is. 

Nay, Myrt, too well you like the game; 

You are too true a devotee; 
My Blue-Print is the kind of dame 

Whose love is less for ball than me; 
And so, my Myrt, that is the reason 
I think I'll go alone this season. 
63 



A Ballplayer's Day 

"Sweet are the uses of advertisement." 

OLD SONG 

The famous pitcher woke at eight 

To one of GUFF'S ALARUM CLOCKS, 
Put on a suit of AERO-GREAT, 

And donned a pair of SILKO-SOX. 

Then, lathered well with SMEAREM'S SOAP, 
He shaved with BOREM'S RUSTLESS 
BLADE; 

Did on a suit of heliotrope — 
THE KAMPUS KUT in every shade. 

Then berries served with JORDAN'S CREAM 
And eggs from BUNKEM'S DAIRY 
FARM; 

Then, as he read THE MORNING SCREAM, 
He smoked a pipe of LUCKY CHARM. 

Then, donning one of BEANEM'S HATS, 

He rode out in his WHATSTHECAR; 
Played ball; then home to RENTEM'S 
FLATS 
To smoke a SHUTEMOUT CIGAR. 
64 



A Ballplayer's Day 

He listened to his WAXAPHONE, 

Then lay — ending his day so rough — 
Upon a mattress widely known. 

***** 

But, at the price, I've said enough. 



Ever See Her? 

There was a little fluff, 
And she wore a little puff 

And a rat made of shoddy and of cotton. 
When they were there 
She looked very, very fair, 

And when they were off she looked rotten. 



65 



A Ballad of Baseball Burdens 

The burden of hard hitting. Slug away 
Like Honus Wagner or like Tyrus Cobb. 

Else fandom shouteth: "Who said you could 
play? 
Back to the jasper league, you minor slob!" 
Swat, hit, connect, line out, get on the job. 

Else you shall feel the brunt of fandom's ire 
Biff, bang it, clout it, hit it on the knob — 

This is the end of every fan's desire. 



The burden of good pitching. Curved or 
straight. 

Or in or out, or haply up or down, 
To puzzle him that standeth by the plate, 

To lessen, so to speak, his bat-renown: 

Like Christy Mathewson or Miner Brown, 
So pitch that every man can but admire 

And offer you the freedom of the town — 
This is the end of every fan's desire. 
66 



A Ballad of Baseball Burdens 

The burden of loud cheering. O the sounds ! 
The tumult and the shouting from the 
throats 
Of forty thousand at the Polo Grounds 

Sitting, ay, standing sans their hats and 

coats. 
A mighty cheer that possibly denotes 
That Cub or Pirate fat is in the fire; 
Or, as H. James would say, We've got their 
goats — 
This is the end of every fan's desire. 

The burden of a pennant. O the hope, 
The tenuous hope, the hope that's half a 
fear, 

The lengthy season and the boundless dope, 
And the bromidic; "Wait until next year." 
O dread disgrace of trailing in the rear, 

O Piece of Bunting, flying high and higher 
That next October it shall flutter here: 

This is the end of every fan's desire. 

ENVOY 

Ah, Fans, let not the Quarry but the Chase 

Be that to which most fondly we aspire! 
For us not Stake, but Game; not Goal, but 
Race — 
THIS is the end of every fan's desire. 



67 



John Jones, Clerk 

John Jones, he was a faithful clerk 

As any now alive; 
You'd always find him at his work 

From eight o'clock till five. 

Without a single minute's loss 
He worked the tedious days, 

Till once he said: "I'll strike the boss 
For just a little raise." 

"Why, Jones," replied the Leader then, 

"How can you be so base? 
Why, I could get a hundred men 

To-day to take your place. " 

So Jones apologized, and turned 

Back to his daily books, 
Until his nature fairly yearned 

For fields and trees and brooks. 

"I need a rest," requested Jones, 
"Please, sir, may I be spared?" 

Whereat the Boss in honeyed tones 
Accordingly declared : 



John Jones, Clerk 

"Why, John, old chap, I'd like to let 

You off for half a year; 
But how would this old business get 

Along without you here? " 



One More 

Another difference, meseems, 
Betwixt the twain, forsooth; 

The optimist has illusions, 
The pessimist knows the truth. 



"And the Only Tune that He Could 
Play" 

Jane, Jane, my upstairs neighbor, 
Learned to play with lots of labor, 
But the only thing she ever would play 
Was the sextet from "Lu-ci-a. " 

Tom, Tom, the man below, 
Plays for hours on the pi-an-o, 
Plays no tune but the "Melody in F," 
And only that in the treble clef. 

Across the court is a Fair Unknown 
Who loves to listen to the Talkiphone, 
And the only record she cares to spring 
Is that "Every Little Movement" thing. 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 

Loves to practise the "Miserere"; 

Ben, Ben, the gink next door us, 

Knows no tune but "The Pilgrims' Chorus." 



70 



Thorns, Rifts, Clouds, Flaws, Blemishes, 
Etc* 

["The attitude of mind I have always believed in, is 
to answer, when anybody says how ugly Mrs. Blank's 
nose is, 'Yes, but hasn't she a lovely complexion?'" — 
Kate Douglas Wiggin.] 

Would I were constructed so ! 

Would I failed to find the flaws! 
But when people talk of Poe 

With consid'able applause 
I concede that he was There; 

That his name is deep engraven 
On the scroll; "But," I declare, 

"I can't see much in 'The Raven.'" 



People prate of Dryden's dope, 

But his rhymes were often false; 
There are some good things in Pope, 

But his meter often halts. 
Take the things that Wordsworth wrote, 
Some — I hate to hurl the hammer — 
Are not worthy of a pote; 

Shelley made some slips in grammar. 
71 



In Other Words 

Horace Greeley wrote a fist 

That a comp. could never read; 
Byron — yes, if you insist, 

He could write, I will concede — 
But his private history 

Was a riot and a panic — 
Inexcusable by me, 

Stern, unbending, Puritanic. 

Would I sensed a Thornless Rose! 

Would I heard a Riftless Lute! 
Would, despite that lady's nose, 

I could say "But she's a beaut." 
Would that I might ever see 

But the True, the Fair, the Youthful! 
Would — oh, would that I might be 

Optimistic — and untruthful ! 



72 



"May Recover n 

There was a man in our town, 
And he was wondrous hot; 

He jumped into a Broadway bar 
For the contents of a bot. 

And when he found it made him warm 
To drink of Scotch or rye, 

He jumped into another bar 
Another drink to buy. 



73 



As John Howard Payne said — 

There's a popular impression tantamount to 
an obsession, 
We have read of it in article and pome, 
That vacationers returning undergo a lot of 
yearning 

To be home. 

We have seen a lot of verses on the emptiness 
of purses 
Caused by going to the mountain or the 
shore, 
How the dolce far niente thing is often more 
than plenty, 

And a bore. 

Wheeze and whimsy, fact and fable on the 
poorness of the table, 
Gag and giggle on the hardness of the bed — 
Of the myriad deprivations to the goers on 
vacations 

We have read. 

As to all that sort of patter touching on va- 
cation matter, 
We arise in modest wise to interject 
That the folks who knock the rural thing — 
or things, to make it plural — 
Are correct. 
74 



For the Other 364 Days 

Christmas is over. Uncork your ambition! 
Back to the battle! Come on, competition! 
Down with all sentiment, can scrupulosity! 
Commerce has nothing to gain by jocosity; 
Money is all that is worth all your labors; 
Crowd your competitors, nix on your neigh- 
bors! 
Push 'em aside in a passionate hurry, 
Argue and bustle and bargain and worry ! 
Frenzy yourself into sickness and dizziness — 
Christmas is over and Business is Business. 



75 



Us Potes 

Swift was sweet on Stella; 

Poe had his Lenore; 
Burns's fancy turned to Nancy 

And a dozen more. 

Pope was quite a trifler; 

Goldsmith was a case; 
Byron'd flirt with any skirt 

From Liverpool to Thrace. 

Sheridan philandered; 

Shelley, Keats, and Moore 
All were there with some affair 

Far from lit'rachoor. 

Fickle is the heart of 

Each immortal bard. 
Mine alone is made of stone — 

Gotta work too hard. 



76 



Footlight Motifs 

ANNA HELD 

I shall not praise your Gallic ways, 
Nor say that you are sweet; 

Nor even tell about the spell 
That brings me to your feet. 



I shall devise about your eyes, 
Nor precious words nor choice; 

I shall not print a single hint 
In honor of your voice. 



I shall not sing of anything 
That makes me genuflect; 

Nor grace nor air, nor face nor hair 
In brief, in no respect. 



I shall not praise the heldian ways. 

If you must know, forsooth — 
Because that I detest a lie, 

And aim to print the truth. 

77 



In Other Words 

EMMY WEHLEN 

Lady stars from oversea, 
Twinkling in our firmament. 

Small the smash you make with me 
Be you ne'er so prominent. 

Keener critics may adore you; 

Frankly, though, I'm seldom for you. 

I was never one who raved 
O'er the pseudo-picturesque 

Nor, though young, was I enslaved 
By the art of H. Modjesk.; 

And I own I do not care a 

Lot about the Perfect Sarah. 



Polish ladies leave me cold; 

Dames Italian warm me not; 
And, if further truth be told, 

I'm electrified no jot, 
Trifle, fragment, ohm, iota, 
By th' entire foreign quota. 

But, however, still and yet, 
Maugre all my prejudice 

I am not so firmly set 
That I will not yield in this: 

If I like a lady's way, so 

Help me Robert, I will say so! 
78 



Footlight Motifs 

Fairy, elfin, pixie, sprite, 

Naiad, hamadryad, fay, 
Witch and Phantom of Delight 

Such-a-little flow'r-o'-May, 
Emmy Wehlen, more than pretty 
Subject of this Deathless Ditty! 

Wherefore I should like to hint, 

Caring not if it be seen, 
Here and now in public print, 

She's considerable queen. 
Nothing's left in my thesaurus — 
She's a peach, believe me, Mawruss. 



EVA TANGUAY 

Tell me not, in boastful hollers, 
What her salary may be; 

Though it be a million dollars 
It is all the same to me. 

Though the universal rumor 
Place her at the top of fun, 

To my narrow mind, of humor 
She has absolutely none. 

Lives of actresses remind us, 
We can make an awful Hit, 

If we only put behind us 
All our Piety and Wit. 
79 



In Other Words 

Let us then be up and pounding 
Piffle of the kind that flaunts 

Its inanity astounding! 

" Give the public what it wants!" 

THE CLASSIC DANCE 

Isadora, when you dance 
I am bounden by no thrall, 

And the Rhythm of old Romance 
Surges o'er me not at all. 

Critics with a keener eye, 
Judges with a broader view, 

Tell me that your Art is high — 
Wonderful the things you do. 

Banal I and low my brow, 
And my bean is built of bone, 

For allegiance I vow 
To Montgomery and Stone. 

KITTY GORDON 

"It is not beauty I demand, 
A crystal brow, the moon's despair, 

Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, 
Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. " 

These lyric lines are not my own; 

They're by an elder bard, unknown. 
80 



Footligfht Motifs 

And then he sings of lips and eyes, 
"A bloomy pair of vermeil cheeks," 

Counting her charms in ancient wise, 
As was the custom of the Greeks; 

He ends his catalogue, whereat 

"They are but gauds," he says — like that. 

Which — pardon my discursive style, 
(Tis thus the British rhymers do; 

No vulgar haste to coax the smile. 
[I rather like the plan. Do you?]) 

Which, as I started out to say 

Before this unforeseen delay — 

Which brings me, after false alarms 
And hal tings, to this theme of mine: 

In brief, to Kitty Gordon's charms 
Gold, ivory and incarnadine. 

She is, meseems, a gaudy star 

Cold, distant, bright — and there you are. 

MARY GARDEN 

Mary had a little voice, 

(Unless the crits are wrong), 
And everywhere that Mary went 

She took the voice along. 

It followed her upon the stage 

(Which isn't far from fact), 
It made the audience applaud 

To see Miss Mary act. 

81 



In Other Words 

They crowded to the opery house; 

They filled each row and tier; 
And clapped their hands and split their gloves 

When Mary did appear. 

"What makes the folks love Mary so?" 

The eager public cry, 
"Why, Mary is the earth's best show!" 

And that's no Barnum lie. 



Revised 

When the pillow's warm and the sheet is 
torrid, 

When you put cold towels on your fervid fore- 
head. 

When the breeze won't blow, when the 
moments creep, 

When you toss all night and you get no sleep — 
It's hot, by George, it's hot! 



82 



The Lost Wheeze 

Seated last night at my table 

I was laboring for a laugh 
To work into this here colyum, 

In the form of a paragraph. 

I know not what I was thinking, 
Or what was within my brain, 

But I struck one chord of humor 
That was better than all Mark Twain. 

It flooded my littered table 
And my chair of mission oak, 

And I said, in my modest manner, 
To myself "That is sure some joke!" 

It quieted pain and sorrow 

Like love overcoming strife, 
It made me forget the premium 

Due on my well-known life. 

It would have made me famous 

All over the East and West, 
All people would have pointed 

To the Author of that Great Jest. 



In Other Words 

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 
That one Lost Wheeze divine 

That one last word in humor, 
That was- to-be-deathless line! 

It may be that Death's bright Angel 
Will slip me that joke, I guess, 

But that does me no good this morning 
When the page is going to press. 



S4 



From an Awningfless Sanctum 

Were it not better done, as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade? 

Milton. 

Dear Amaryllis (you mentioned in "Lycidas "), 
I'm no philanderer, truly I'm not, 

But in this office it's sticky and viscid as 
Crab-apple jelly and ten times as hot. 

Sternly forbidding, austere, puritanical, 
That is my nature, unardent, severe; 

Yet, though the bulk of my verse is mechanical 
This, Amaryllis, is warmly sincere. 

Dear Amaryllis, I hereby import with you: 
'Ryllie, wo wohnst du, proverbial maid? 

Tell me, for, oh, I am anxious to sport with 
you, 
If, Amaryllis, you'll furnish the shade, 



85 



"On Christmas Day in the Morning: " 

Dreary the room where dun Despair 
Sits unmoved in a broken chair; 
Sad is the home where Want, confessed, 
Comes to the board a daily guest; 
And a woman sits and gazes and weeps 
As Innocence in the cradle sleeps. 
Bitter and hot are the woman's tears, 
And strong with the salt of hopeless years, 
And her heart is heavy with Dread and Hate 
And she questions Justice whose name is Fate; 
And she wonders, too, at the will to live, 
As she thinks of the things she cannot give. 

And the woman weeps in her selfish woe, 
But the grief of another she may not know — 
The grief of another she knows not of — 
Who hath nowhither to give her love. 



86 



From a Par agr apher's GarcJen of Verses 

In winter, when I have to write, 
I hate to do my work at night; 
In summer, quite the other way, 
I hate to have to write by day. 

What time the year is at the spring, 
I hate to work like anything ; 
And in the days of early fall 
I sort of hate to work at all. 

Oh, does it not seem hard to you 
That people should have work to olo? 
But I cannot afford to miss, 
And so I pen a pome like this. 



87 



Gilbert 

Prince of the lambent and elusive smile, 
Dispenser prodigal of light and cheer, 

Sweet knight that sable Care dost oft beguile, 
Poet of Truth, take tribute of a tear! 



88 



Lines to Mar garet, a Singing: and 
Whistling Cook 

Woman, attend my warning; 

Hark to mine ultimat; 
Done by my hand this morning, 

Done in my five-room flat, 
Hark to this warm effusion, 

Ponder on what I write. 
This is my firm conclusion, 

Come to but yesternight: 

Woman, respect my wishes — 

Can you not cease to sing 
While you are washing dishes? 

You are an Awful Thing. 
Melody is not in you 

You are from song immune. 
Will you not discontinue 

Trying to trail a tune? 

Peaceable I and lawful; 

Dreadful of stress and strife; 
But — you are worse than awful, 

Spoiling my Joy of Life. 
Here is my warning: Cop it. 

Ponder it con and pro. ^ 
Woman, unless you stop it, 

ONE OF US HAS TO GO. 
89 



A Pathetic Bit of a Ballad 

"You may say for me," said the banker, as he 

sat in his donjon keep, 
"That I thank the public for all they've done 

and " here he began to weep; 

And the sob reporter wrote a yarn that was 

destined to make you cry, 
And those who read said, "It's too bad. I'm 

sorry for him, poor guy!" 

The sob reporter went to the man as he came 

from the prison cell, 
And the man, released, said "On your way! 

I haven't a word to tell. " 
"But the people," the sob reporter said, "the 

people want to know. " 
And the man leaned back in his limousine and 

uttered a loud "Ho! Ho!" 



90 



Song of the Costoiliving 

Taking it on percentage with Tennyson. 

I come from hunger and from need: 

I make a sudden sally; 
I soar with an increasing speed; 

I scamper up an alley. 

Up, up I soar in eager flight 
Beyond the wildest rumors, 

Until I pass beyond the sight 
Of ultimate consumers. 

I chatter, chatter, as I fly, 
Of ice and eggs and leather, 

And what makes everything so high • 
The middlemen? The weather? 

Again I soar, and more and more, 
Into the heights I cherish; 

And chortle when a hundred score, 
Who cannot see me, perish. 

I rise, I soar, I dip, I fly — 

Descend to earth? Nay, never! 

For men may live and men may die. 
But I go up forever. 
91 



The Old Man's Discomforts 

With obeisances to the estate of R. Southey, dec'd. 

"You are cold, Father William," the young 
man cried, 
"You shiver the length of the day; 
"You are chill, Father William, your hands 
are as ice, 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. " 

"In the flat where I live," Father William 
replied, 

"Though it is an expensive demesne. 
The heat is turned off from eleven at night 

Till morning at seven-fifteen." 

"You are cold, Father William," the young 
man cried 

"Though you live in a beautiful flat, 
You constantly swear at the boreal air — 

Pray slip me the reason for that. " 

"In my costly abode," Father William replied, 
"The casements are fashioned so ill 

That the wind enters in till the temp-er-a-turc 
Of my bedroom is way below nil. " 

92 



The Old Man's Discomforts 

"You are cold, Father William," the young 
man cried, 
"As I animadverted before. 
And yet you pay many doubloons for your 
rent — 
Pray, Pa, juxtapose me once more. " 

"The rent that I pay," Father William re- 
plied, 
"Is paid not for windows nor steam; 
But the entrance downstairs is of marble and 
gold." 
And that's no impalpable dream. 



The Fool 

The Fool did on his motley 
And sighed, as who should say: 

"If all but me be sobbing, 
Why then must I be gay? 

"If all the world be weeping, 
And very life seem wrong, 

Why is it mine to fashion 
A whimsy and a song? 

"Pray, why must I be merry?" 
— But came no answering word. 

For that the world was weeping, 
And none the Fool had heard. 



APRIL 19, 191 2. 



94 



To the Wind: After Gilbert's "To the 
Terrestrial Globe " 

Also after two slumberless nights. 

Blow on, thou wind, blow on! 
Across, up, down the Drive, 

Blow on! 
What though I toss till half-past five? 
What though I have a charge to keep? 
What though I ululate and weep? 
What though I cannot get to sleep? 
Never you mind! 

Blow on! 

Blow on, thou wind, blow on! 
Across my little bed 

Blow on ! 
It's true there's aching in my head; 
It's true my room is twenty-two ; 
My feet are numb; my lips are blue — 
But please don't let that worry you! 
Never you mind ! 

Blow on — 

[It blows on.] 



95 



To a Lady Complaining of Solitude 

[Lines aroused on hearing a song across the area — or 
is it aria? — way.] 

Lady, I hear your moan, 

Set in a minor key, 
Pitched in a plaintive tone, 
Triste is your "All alone, 

Nobody here but me. " 

Lady, I know you not. 

Be you or dark or fair, 
Happy or hard your lot, 
Who you may be or what, 

Little I know — or care. 

But — when you sing that song 
Reeking with woe and ruth — 

Lady, to put it strong, 

Yours is a statement wrong, 
Far from the well-known truth. 

Lady, in brief, you lie. 

Think of me as I rage, 
Aiming to versify. 
"All alone!" Am not I, 

Too, in the vicinage? 

96 



The Pandean is no Pipe 

"Rat-a-tat!" go the rattle-y rivets 
Only a block from this Broadway abode. 

Though I were right as a legion of trivets, 
How could I pencil a perishless ode? 

"Ting-a-ling-ling!" goes the ring telephonic: 
Haste I to answer it, out in the hall, 

"Well?" I intone. Says the lady, laconic, 
"Hang your receiver up. I didn't call." 

Enters a boy who demandeth exchanges; 

Cometh a critic to borrow a match. 
Had I the poise of the Appenine ranges, 

Still inspiration would fail to attach. 

Day after day do I tease the afflatus, 
Wooing a muse that is too fax' aloft, 

And when I leave, a forlorn literatus, 
Office-mates say, "Gee, that guy's got it 
soft." 



97 



44 The Poems of Eugene Field n 

(Somewhat in the Fieldian manner.) 

No gold-reguerdoned poet I to puff a book for 

pelf, 
For even I am forced to buy the books I praise 

myself, 
Albeit there be those that think that when I 

laud a tome 
Its publisher invites me in to make myself at 

home. 
Could you but see the monthly bills that stare 

me in the face, 
You readily would see that such is not the 

happy case; 
Yet once again I toot the horn, again the pen 

I wield 
To advertise the Poetry of Eugene Field. 

Not Swinburne with his lovely lines that 

lilt their way along, 
Not Byron's burning poetry, nor Wordsworth's 

simple song, 
Not Kipling's virile balladry, nor Marlowe's 

mighty line, 
Not Tennyson's pellucid rhyme, nor Shelley's 

odes divine, 

98 



"The Poems of Eugene Field" 

Not Dobson's dainty triolets, nor Chaucer's 

sturdy verse; 
Not Southey, Calverley nor Hood, nor eke 

Sir Thomas Perc, 
To none of these I bring the bay, to none the 

laurel yield — 
My choice is for the Poetry of Eugene Field. 

How varied are the poem-themes in which 

that book abounds! 
The Apple Pies, the Gosling Stews, the Joys 

Unknown to Lowndes! 
And oh, how that dyspeptic apotheosized the 

cooks 
And longed for roast-beef very rare, but even 

rarer books ! 
And wit ye well, how hee ben fain to rede of 

ony knight 
Wyth mace and hauberk, helm and glaive, 

and mickle valoure dight; 
While in the odes of Q. H. F. his knowledge he 

revealed — 
Good sooth, he was a busy bard, was Old 

'Gene Field. 

Exalted be the memory of him with whom 

we've smiled, 
But blessed thrice the name of him that sang a 

little child. - 
Let those who will declare the Gentle Poet 

insincere — 

99 



In Other Words 

I doubt it, like the Carpenter, and check a 

rising tear. 
The which is why I celebrate that poet and 

his rhyme 
And hint it were a goodly gift to give at 

Christmas time — 
Two dollars net, Charles Scribner's Sons — 

Why should it be concealed? 
Go, buy that brimming volume by Eugene 

Field! 



100 



Success 

Success, oh word so ill-defined, 

Oh word that means the same to few! 
A myriad meanings all combined 
Are rolled in you. 

Is it success to have great wealth 

And all the pleasures it will bring? 
Or is it poverty and health, 
As many sing? 

Is it success to own estates, 

Vast areas of mines and land, 
To have the pow'r to mock the fates; 
Supremely grand; 

To have a house with all the things 

That luxury and taste desire; 
Treasures to which the richest kings 
May well aspire. 

A beautiful and noble wife, 

To have, to hold and to caress — 
Is this — are these the things of life 
That make Success? 
101 



In Other Words 

Has he the great, the true success 

If Love and Fame and Wealth are his 
Is this the way to Happiness? 
You bet it is. 



102 



Managerial Tradition 

If one should say that Boston girls were pretty 
and athletic — 
As many of them' very likely be — 
If one should say Chicago maids were cultured 
and esthetic 
And Philadelphia fairies fast and free — 

If one depict a Western girl that isn't known 
as "breezy," 
If one should say a Gotham girl were slow — 
It all would be veracious and it should be 

very eas^do tjfq 
But who would ever dare produce the show? 
:bdl mis sna elidw arfT 

9vif xlqmh au \o navoa sriT" 
;si3ii moil y 
— \&b zamtehdO gi v^b- A 

" .iaoy b 93x10 iud 29m< ■ 

smil • has had & vnjsfn nl 

■ bsrf I 9v 
nsaa I 9V£il risdj ^ai^ idvan 

103 



Christmas Comes but Once a Year" 

(As Wordsworth might simply have done it.) 

I met a little village child, 

A simple one and poor 
As ever crossed the heath at night 

Or went across the moor. 

"What do you out so late abroad?" 

I asked that simple child. 
She simply looked at me and said, 

The while she simply smiled: 

"The seven of us simply live 

A little way from here; 
And oh, to-day is Christmas day — 

It comes but once a year. " 

In many a land and many a clime 

Have I had cause to be, 
But never since then have I seen 

Such sweet simplicity. 

104 



"Christmas Comes but Once a Year" 

(As Austin Dobson might rondeau it, "To a Poet 
Bewailing the Paucity of Christmas. ") 

" Christmas comes but once a year?" 

Be it so! Why interfere? 
Melt but once the silver snows, 
Blossoms only once the rose — 

Does it make the rose less dear? 

Nay, my silly sonneteer, 
Other days may disappear, 
New Year's leaves and May-day goes — 
Christmas comes! 

Draws the day of Noel near, 
Light the log and mix the cheer! 

Vanish, Care! and perish Prose! 

'Tis the season of rondeaux 
Intricately Gallic. . . . Here 
Christmas comes! 

(Being an attempt to parody an eminent young 
librettist, author, manager and actor.) 

Now, everybody knows that I'm a patriotic 
guy — 

{By the dawn's early light) 
My birthday and the country's is the 4th day 
of July. 

(Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! The boys 
are marching.) 
105 



But though I'd like to sing a song about Abe 
Lincoln's birthday, 

(Just before the battle, mother) 
I think that, on the level, Christmas ought to 
have the first say. 

>na lav lis odl sono iud iJaM 
- 3801 sriJCBORUS riosaoia 
: jh aasl 3201 3fl 1 oA&m il asod 
It's a grand old institution, 

(Zw Dixie laud Til take my stand) 
In the Western Hemisphere, 
S30*> . iff a ^ Columbia! Happy land!) 
Then give three cheers for Christmas, 
(And a tiger) 
It comes but once a year. , fifa ^ gW£l(3 

:d3 3iii zirn brie go! srfj Jdgi 
You may have your Decoration Day, your 
New Year's and the rest, gfp 
(0 Columbia! the gem of the oce<in!) 
But Christmas Eve on Broadway is the time 
that suits me best. 

(Maryland! My Maryland!) 
'Tis there you find your dear old pals, the best 
in all the world; 

(Way down upon the Swanee River!) 
'Tis there you find the best of all the fellows 

and the girls. ^ ^fa y;8.) 

/jib d: uiuoo srta has y&bdliid v_M 

CHORUS 

It's a grand old institution, etc. 

106 



"Christmas Comes but Once a Year" 

r? . ?V v'n (Somewhat in the Kipling manner.) 

Now these are the things that Christmas brings, 

the things of the tide of Yxde, 
And this is the way of that dreads ome day, as it 

goes by the swerveless ride:, n j\ 

Days and weeks the lady seeks to purchase of a 
trinket, 
(Shop! shop! shop! O the terror of the 
trade!) 
Buyin' of a gift o' love? Well, ye better think 
ij&ro iguorWA 

Aimin' at the sergeant who is passin' on 
parade. 

And it's shop, shop, shop! 
Till the sweat begins to drop! 
Never was a present yet worth a charge o' 

hop. 

f( bdiooi 3fi rrguorlilA 

Sergeant Burr has bought for her a bally 
di'mond jewel 

(Shop! shop! shop! O the terror of the 
trade!) 
Never met a orfcer yet as wasn't cold an' cruel 
(O the wily sergeant, and ah, the willing 
maid !) 
'•Audit's shop! shop! shop! 

Till the sweat begins to drop; — 
Never was a present yet worth a charge o' 
hop! 

107 



In Other Words 

Now those are the things that Christmas brings, 

the things of the tide of Yule, 
And that is the way of that dreadsome day, as it 

goes by the swerveless rule! 

(In Hood's worst manner.) 

JOCOSE JOE STENCIL 

A Bathetic Ballad 

Joe Stencil was a nice young man, 

And eke a shipping clerk, 
Although he'd often work to love, 

He never loved to work. 



One day he met with Minnie Brown, 
And fain would be her lover, 

But Minnie overlooked him quite, 
Although he looked her over. 



"O Minnie Brown! Minnie Brown! 

Why think you not of me?' 7 
"The more I think of you," she said, 

"The less I think," said she. 

"O Minnie Brown! O Minnie Brown! 

I think it would be proper, 
Although I but a shipper am, 

If I should be a shopper. 
108 



44 Christmas Comes but Once a Year" 

" Be not so adamant, " said Joe, 

"I aim not to deceive. 
I'll be your Christmas Adam, if 

You'll be my Christmas Eve. " 

Joe Stencil then began to sing 
Of all the joy he'd bring her: 

"Ah, Minnie, when I sing to you, 
I am a minnesinger. " 

"O Joseph, cut the comedy, 
You've had an overdose; 
Although I like to hear you, Joe 
I like you less jocose." 

"O Min, I know the jokes are not 

Particularly good, 
But they are as jest as good as some 

You'll find in Thomas Hood. 



"Only upon the Christmas day 
Shall I my puns rehearse, 

For though they are quite prosy, yet 
You know they might be verse. " 

And so 'tis but a single day 
This double pair most fear, 

And they rejoice that Christmas day 
Comes only once a year. 
109 



In Qtket Words ,^3* 

(As Lord Byron might sing it, in a minor.) 

Farewell! And if within that breast if j m. 

Affection's spark shall smolder still, 
Fan it to flame and quench the rest, 

And let the world say what it will. 

sot 
Farewell ! Farewell ! O wintry word 

That chills and numbs this aching heart — 
This heart that hath so often erred, 

But softens when 'tis time to part. 

0" 

Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! And though 
This heart shall be an empty thingjiilA 

Thou canst not fathom half the woe 
That lies within it when I sing. 

Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! Oh, dear, 
Of all that dearest is. to me, —^ ^g 

Though Christmas comes but once a year, 
My farewells come more frequently. 

(Being an attempt to get away with Thomas Moore's 
manner.) KI I iiBffg 
aq oilup sin \sd3 flguoift to'* 
Oh, sweet is the scent of the rose in the morn- 
ing, 
And fresh is the flower besprinkled with dew, 
But sweeter and fresher thy face is, mavour- 

a nCen ' u r, i iu fXpaA 

As pure as the lily and whiter of hue. 

no 



44 Christmas Comes but Once a Year " 

Oh, silk was the shawl that I last saw her 
wearing, 
And sad are the moorlands and sad are the 
leas. , r ; y 

And sadder the songs that they sing about 
Erin, 
4nd saddest the way that they drop off the 
g's. 

■ . '.rn loqqu''. IA sA) 

Oh, red is the berry that grows on the holly, 
And tender the mem'ry of vanished things 
dear, ^no on i 
And this is the thought of my sweet melan* 
choly; a A 

That Christmas comes once and but once in 
the year* so vbodon ,v^ I M&z 

(In one of Frank L. Stanton's manners.) 
anon bisa oviifi I fbiriw Isrtj at 
I 

Chris'mus am a-comin', 
Cahve de possum meat! 

My! dem sweet potatoes 
Am mighty good to eat. 

jj I j£ffw 8i airlJ woVi 
2t diuii nmsloa bnA 
Chris'mus am a-comin', : z ] g \ Q mm a 

Down in Geo'gy Ian'; J OTB 10 M 
Chris'mus am a-comin',,^ ai airfi JuH 
Ah ^ Don' yo un'er'stan'? . ) "\o ^ b sAT 
ill 



In Other Words 

III 

Chris 'mus am a-comin', 

Hear, believers, hear, 
Chris'mus come to Geo'gy 

Only wunst a year. 

(Stanzas IV to CLI supplied on demand.) 
(As Martin Farquhar Tupper might have obscured it.) 

Now this is an indisputable fact, 

And that is one which no one can dispute; 
As true as that a diplomat needs tact, 

As true as that an apple is a fruit, 
None can deny what I have said; What I 
Have said, I say, nobody can deny. 

And if none can gainsay what I have said, 
Then that which I have said none can gain- 
say, 

A man who's passed away is known as dead; 
Dead is a person who has passed away. 

But this is not what I began to sing; 

What I began to say is not this thing. 

Now this is what I hold asjsolemn truth, 
And solemn truth is that which is not gay. 

A man of sixty years is not a youth, 

Nor are black tresses those completely gray. 

But this is clear as glass, as glass is clear: 

The day of Christmas comes but once a year. 

112 



44 Christmas Comes but Once a Year" 

(As Swinburne might treat it.) 

As a day that dawns when the dark is dimmer, 

Sodden and sad as a sunless sea, 
Gray and green as a glaring glimmer, 

Burnished and bright in its gilded glee. 
Gone the guerdon and gone the glories, 

Dead or ever the day was born — 
Dead as a devilish dove, Dolores, 

Mother of misery, made to mourn ! 

Thou hast bared thy breast to the boreal 
breezes 

Sibilant, stark, as the soul of sin, 
Chill and cheap as a Cheshire cheese is, 

Gloriously glad as an elinorglyn ! 
Winds that whimper and winds that whistle 

Faster far than the phantom of fear. 
Dolores, the toe of mistle! 

Christmas comes! and but once a year. 



113 



M tfisY £ 3onO tad ssmoD ajsmfchHD* 

::oi) M§im smudniw2 aA) 

i 3&rti y\ei 
bns nabi 

After Samuel Rogers 

/- / 77 %» J / 77 

00/ }'<?w may az/Z ^ madness, Jolly; 

You shall not chase my gloom away. 
There's such a charm in melancholy 

I would not, if I could, be gay. ' 

For me the month is never May. 

Fate hurls at me a daily volley. \ [y asi 
The nights are black, the noons are grayer) 

Go! you may call it madness, folly. 

id) i£i ioi?.B r i 
Go, frivolers, to your fi-nale! gsiolod O 

Go,, butterflies, go on and play ! , tfahrf 
You make no hit with me. By golly, 

You shall not chase my gloom away! 

Alas ! the heavy price we pay 

For Life her mistletoe and holly! 
The shadow's longer than the ray. 

There's such a charm in melancholy! 

Each time I meet another dollie 

She takes a look and says: "Nay, nay!" 

And while I'm beating for the trolley 
/ would not, if I could, be gay. 

114 



After Samuel Rogers 

How simple is the metric jolly! 

Though meaningless as shredded hay, 
Though very rare the rhymes in oily, 

How smooth these rondeaux redoublees 

Go! 

^iiosmolqiG sriT 

(iiodlJ brm 8J . 

rvo c i 3fi'J 

' ,( ^30dlf2 ouiT si IbiIW 15 

; ''fbiiidW knofrfiVl lo sJnsm^k'I sri 
; u 81bM lo easnba; 
[ booO fiarf} -wtoi Mt si" 

! siij iuO 8§ni 1" bnA 

a^ibadO lo aasfiisoiG 

ff edT y ' 
■ tiisI 3vbH smbI g'bgsH Hi 
bijjiiD io 9J I9ijs9i0 jdbirfW' 1 

;"nkq8 

" i bo ■ - 

— 

-St B iud t>lA 
I BJmSl§ TO^ 
115 



The Diplomat! iacs 

"The Puritans and Liberty"; 

"The Power of the Press"; 
"The Portuguese in History"; 

And "What Is True Success?" 

"The Elements of National Wealth"; 

"The Fixedness of Mars"; 
"Is Money Greater than Good Health?" 

And "Night Brings Out the Stars." 

"The Greatness of Obedience"; 

"The Mission of Research"; 
"Will Hegel's Fame Have Permanence?" 

"Which Greater — State or Church? " 

"Audaces Fortuna Juvat"; 

"America and Spain"; 
"Hoc Opus Finis Coronat," 

"Psychology of Pain." 

"The Joy that Education brings"; 

"Antonian Triremes" — 
Are but a few of many things 

For graduation themes. 
116 



Rondel 

Bribery, suicide, crime — 

Ain't it a deuce of a note 
Trying to fashion a rhyme — 

One that exchanges will quote? 

Why do the papers devote 
Pages and pages to grime, 
Bribery, suicide, crime? 

Ain't it a deuce of a note? 

Once when the psalter I smote 
Sounds that were sweet and sublime 

Came; but to-day if a pote 
Echoes the theme of his time — 
Bribery, Suicide, Crime — 

Ain't it a deuce of a note? 



117 



To the Waltonian Bards 

(Aroused by the fact that fourteen of our exchanges 
this morning contain "Fishin"' poems.) 

Poets that prate of the worry of working 
During the days of a sultry July, 

Prate of the pleasure undoubtedly lurking, 
Lurking, we say, in the rod and the fly — 

Bards who descant on the wonders of fishing, 
Angling for pickerel, "muskie" and trout, 

Voicing that awful, inevitable "wishing" — 
Can it, forget it, let go, cut it out. 

Joys piscatorial may be delightful, 

Singing them, though, is a bit of a pest ; 

Ours not the wish to be acid or spiteful, 
But, brother bards, won't you give us a rest? 



118 



Triolettuce Salad 

Ingredients by Goldsmith, Mallet, Trowbridge and 
Coleridge. Stirred by us with a fountain pen this day. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song. 
Or slim or stout, or tall or short, 
Good people all, of every sort, 
Attend ye to my metric sport 

Until I sound the gong. 
Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song. 



'Twas at the silent, solemn hour 

When night and morning meet. 
Within my cozy five-room bow'r, 
Twas at the silent solemn hour, 
When Bill, in tones of dreadful pow'r, 

Yelled: "HEY, GIDDAP THERE, PETE!" 
'Twas at the silent, solemn hour 

When night and morning meet! 



119 



In Other Words 

The night was made for cooling shade, 
For silence and for sleep. 

mighty line by Trowbridge made — 
" The night was made for cooling shade" 

1 hear the garbage-can brigade, 
And murmur, cursing deep: 

"The night was made for cooling shade, 
For silence and for sleep " 

Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing, 

Beloved from pole to pole! 
Ah, Coleridge, thou who daredst to sing 
"Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing!" 
Thou never heardst the ash can's bing, 

Else blank had been that scroll: 
Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing 

Beloved from pole to pole! 



120 



The Easy Giggle 

Showing how the leading comedian may always get 
a certain hand. 

When the vein of comicality 
Is voided of vitality, 

And all the silly little 

Tattle-tittle 

Has been done, 
There always is a visible 
Assurance of the risible 

By dexterously using 

An amusing 

Little pun. 



CHORUS 

You can always get a laugh with that. 

Or by joshing any lady who is fat, 
When you sing the second stanza, 
Speak of Dressier or Friganza — 

You can always get a line with that, 



121 



In Other Words 

The ways of being humorous 
Are not so very numerous; 

They'll laugh until they're crying 

When you're guying 
New Rochelle; 
And nearly all humanity 
Will giggle at profanity — 

Tho whole entire gamut 

Clear from " " 

Down to " . " 



CHORUS 

You can always get a laugh with that — 
Never try to hit the crowd above the hat, 

If you want to get 'em shrieking, 

Imitate a lady speaking — 
You can always get a laugh with that. 

DANCE 



122 



The Ballade of the Northern Girl 

Her manner was perfectly sweet 

And golden the hue of her hair; 
She was pretty, of course, and petite; 

And when you would ask of her: " Where 

Are you from?" she would answer: "Eau 
Claire, 
Wisconsin, What? 'Baltimore'? Nixie! 

What made you think I was from 
there?" .... 

She always applauded at "Dixie." 



She was fair from her head to her feet; 

She was — oh, description's despair, 
As she rose from her orchestra seat 

And pounded her gloves to a tear - 

This dear little maid from Bellaire, 
Ohio. Ingenuous, tricksy. 

"New Orleans? No! . . . How you 
stare!" .... 
She always applauded at "Dixie." 

123 



In Other Words 

She is found in the shop and the street; 

She sits in a restaurant chair; 
She may be bourgeois or elite; 

But she thrills to the Southerner's air. 

From Portsmouth, N. H,, and Big Bear, 
N. Y., this ubiquitous pixie. 

Though blue was her grandfather's wear, 
She always applauded at "Dixie." 

L'Envoi 
O Epitaph-makers, prepare 

This sentence, and chisel it quick, see: 

HERE LIETH MISS LEGION, THE FAIR: 



124 



Lines on the Sabbath 

To a person loving leisure in a high and heap- 
ing measure 
What a joyaunce, what a treasure is a Sun- 
day afternoon ! 
Of diversions there are plenty, from the dolce 
far niente 
Joys to seventeen or twenty things to kill a 
day in June. 

One may journey in a motor, go to Coney in a 
boat, or 
Pass the rickey down the throat, or mix the 
julep with the mint; 
Do you love it cool and pretty, there are Deal, 
Atlantic City, 
And some others that my ditty hasn't room 
enough to print. 

For the Phyllises there's wooing while the 
Cory dons are suing; 
There is walking and canoeing, there are 
hammocks, there are swings; 
And for those that have the notion there's the 
broad Atlantic Ocean 
For a dip — and Land o' Goshen! — there's 
a myriad of things! 
125 



In Other Words 

One may read a little when it strikes one's 
fancy — Arnold Bennett, 
H. G. Wells, or what the Senate has to say 
on this or that — 
But of all the things delighting and alluring 
and exciting, 
Truly, none of them is writing in a stuffy 
Harlem flat. 



1*6 



''The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers" 

(The Pilgrim Fathers have virtues ascribed to them 
which they never possessed — Prof. Albert Bushnell 
Hart.) 

The breaking waves dashed high 

On a warm and pleasant coast, 
And the woods against an azure sky 

Their Parrish branches toss'd; 

And the summer night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er, 
When those summer tourists moor'd their 
bark 

On the swell New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the weak-hearted, came. 
But, like a bunch of exiled bums, 

Trying to beat the game. 

There were men with thinning hair 

Amidst that pilgrim class; 
Why had they come to wither there 

In a burg like Plymouth, Mass.? 

127 



In Other Words 

What did they there for weeks? 

I do not know, I'm sure, 
Unless, perhaps, they made "Antiques" 

And "real old furniture. " 



128 



The Exile of Erin 

(Mr. Thomas Campbell's heirs are apologized to.) 

There came to the flat a poor exile of Erin, 
Her brogue was as thick as a shamrock 
puree, 
The calico dress that our Maggie was wearin' 

Was ragged as army flags all shot away; 
She was timid and meek, she would stand 

without hitchin' ; 
She labored all day in the hot little kitchen ; 
She washed and she ironed and hummed most 
bewitching 
The beautiful anthem of Erin go bragh. 

All friendless and lonely was Maggie O'Ryan, 
No sweethearts there came her lone heart to 
beguile; 
Yet cheerful and gladsome, nor sobbin' nor 
sighin', 
For friends that were left in the Emerald 
Isle; 
No threnody hers for the land she was born in; 
She always arose before six in the mornin', 
And sang the sweet strains of her "Erin 
Mavourneen" — 
The minor melodies of Erin go bragh. 
129 



In Other Words 

Alas, as the poet declares, Tempus fidgets! 
Tis only a month since she came to our 
shore. 
But since she's met Norahs and Katies and 
Bridgets, 
Ochone! our acushla is happy no more! 
She started to work for a weekly three-fifty; 
But now she gets seven, her habits are thrifty. 
Her dress it is faultless and stylishly nifty — 
And Tuesdays and Thursdays and Satur- 
days out. 



130 



Of Coarse You Would 

If you had to make some verses on the topics 
of the day, 
You would read the morning papers rather 
fully; 
For you'd like to find a theme to make your 
readers shout: "Hooray!" 
And to make your Dear Employer say: 
"That's bully!" 

You would scan aforesaid journals with a very 
fine-tooth comb 
(With the metaphors I'm something of a 
mixer.) 
For a nifty little subject you could pad into a 
pome; 
And you'd have to be about it pretty quick, 
sir. 

You would read the Morse indictment; you 
would read of plot and crime; 
You might read about a meeting suffragetty ; 
But you'd say: "Them ain't no matters for to 
put in classic rhyme," 
And no more would be the Central loans and 
Hetty. 

131 



In Other Words 

¥ou would read how Mr. Vanderbilt and 
others had been robbed; 
You would read or skip some speeches at a 
dinner; 
You would see a Gothic headline saying: 
"Pretty Woman Mobbed," 
And you'd read a few critiques of Otis 
Skinner. 

You would read about the blow-up in the tun- 
nel yesternoon; 
You would read — oh, yes you would — the 
ice inquiry; 
You would read about the chap who lived a 
week in a balloon, 
And you'd find that every theme was 
uninspiry. 

Oh, you'd worry like the mischief on your 

foolish daily pome, 

For you'd want to do it prettily and nicely, 

And after doing all of this you'd hit the breeze 

for home. 

* * * * 

And that's the way that I should do, pre- 
cisely. 



132 



True Comfort 

(There is nothing quite so comforting in this life as a 
word of five syllables. — Mr. W. Pett Ridge.) 

Brevity! Heavens, what inefficaciousness! 

Brevity! Piffle! A mere fabulosity! 
Comfort is only a great ostentatiousness; 

Quiet is only in vociferosity. 



Shortness in writing denotes adolescency, 
Me for an erudite, big etymologist — 

One who can tell you the true delitescency 
Found in the brain of a phytopathologist. 

Still, I believe that a man pharmaceutical 
Seems, in a measure, to be reimbursable, 

Arguing thus, it seems quite therapeutical 
Voters for Taft are to be incoercible. 

Which, to a mind beyond doubt algebraical, 
Seems but the rankest of rank meretricious- 
ness, 
Silly and sad, not to say pharisaical; 
Bless you ! the thing is but old superstitious- 
ness! 

133 



In Other Words 

Ah ! How I flounder in mad inconclusiveness 1 

Mad is this quinquepedalian verbosity. 
" Comfort?" Great heavings! What mad 
perdiff usiveness — 
Look at me here in complete comatosity! 



To Gclctt Burgess 

I never saw a Sulphite. No, 
I never hope to see one; 

I am acquiring brain fag, though, 
Endeavoring to be one. 



134 



Bacchanalian Songs 

(The American Magazine advances that most of the 
drinking songs are pretty poor stuff.) 

These endless aimless, footless airs! 

Carousers start and never end 'em: 
"We're Here Because"; " Nobody Cares"; 
"Nunc Est Bibendum." 

Tis true. The lyric of the souse 
Is often far from a divine song, 
Be it "Another on the House" 

Or Hovey's "Stein Song." 

A myriad more the drinking cuss 

Will carol as the hours grow slender? 
"Lang Soil Er Leben" and "Give Us 
A Drink, Bartender!" 

Poor stuff, in sooth. Yet though the loads 

May warble dithyrambics wishy, 
Meseems I know no stirring odes 
To Milk-and- Vichy. 



135 



On a Certain Propensity of Bootblacks to 
Toy with the Shoelaces of the Shinee 

Polishing little rapscallion, 

Shining away at my shoes, 
Be thou or Greek or Italian, 

Thou art the one I accuse; 
Ruin my tans with thy tarnish, 

That were a crime to condone, 
But, when thou smearest the varnish, 

Leave thou my laces alone! 

Utterly spoil and demolish 

All of the calfskin I wear, 
Wreak, with thy poisonous polish, 

Ruin — 'tis little I care. 
But, as thou needest thy nickel, 

Listen to me as I moan: 
"Cease thou mine ankles to tickle! 

Leave thou my laces alone!" 

Fiend, how thou watchest me wriggle! 

Ghoul, how thou watchest me wince! 
Whiles that thou hidest a giggle 

Under thy Genoan squints. 
Hark! I shall — be this a warning 

Final and straight from my throne! 
Kick in thy features some morning, 

An thou leav'st not my laces alone! 

136 



Christmas Cards 
Being the songs of an old Scrooge 

I. TO A JANITOR 

Native of Sweden or Norway, 

Tyrant of terrible type, 
Standing around in the doorway, 

Smoking a miserable pipe — 

Thou who refusest to steam up, 
Thou who denyest me heat, 

Thou who wilt not send my cream up, 
Thou who purloinest my meat — 

Father of infants whose weeping 
All through the perilous night 

Loudly inhibits my sleeping — 
Read, if thou canst, what I write: 

Why, at this holiday season, 
Should I drop into the slot 

Money? There isn't a reason ; 
Therefore, old chap, I shall not. 
137 



In Other Words 

II. TO A STENOGRAPHER 

Person feminine of gender, 

Pounding at the lettered keys, 
Think you that I should surrender 
Tribute, be it ne'er so slender? 
Lithe and listen, please: 



You who, chafing at your fetters, 
Say you "Do not have to work, 
Queen of pompadoured coquetters 
How you hate to take my letters! 
How you love to shirk! 



You who take two hours for luncheon 

Cake and soda, as it seems, 
Being all that make your nuncheon, 
While all afternoon you munch on 
Callow chocolate creams. 



Typist, it is truth I'm telling — 

Pardon mine insurgency — 
But, O maid at work rebelling, 
Scorner of the rules of spelling, 
Not a cent from me! 
138 



Christmas Cards 

III. TO AN ELEVATOR BOY 

You leave me waiting on my floor, 

Although I press the button hard. 
Day after day do you ignore 
This bard. 



I walk downstairs; a tiresome task 

For one aweary, worn and old. 
And now at Christmas-time you ask 
For gold! 



Shall I a good cigar deny 

Myself? A quarter? Make your lot 
A bit more bearable? Well, I 
Guess not! 



IV. TO A cook 

Foreign genius culinary, 

Proud but inefficient cook, 
Gretchen, Olga, Hulda, Mary, 
Look: 



Haply thou expect'st a present 
As the smallest of thy dues, 
Hearken! Thou shalt hear unpleasant 

News. 

139 



In Other Words 

Hast thou ever tried to study 

What my palate might allure? 
Dost thou make the coffee muddy? 
Sure. 

Though I like a peeled tomato, 

Do I get it thataway? 
Do I get a baked potato? 

Nay. 

Though I like my steak the rarest, 

Red as the Milwaukee bricks, 
Thy results but prove thou carest 

Nix. 

Therefore let this be the burden 
Of this bit of deathless dope: 
Dost thou get a Christmas guerdon? 
Nope! 



140 



Thanking One and AIL 

[If it were generally known how many writers who 
have achieved success have practically been made by 
editors endowed with the gift of helping the young 
author to find himself, the public would be indeed sur- 
prised. Once in a while one may be startled by some 
grateful communication or dedication expressive ot 
such literary indebtedness, but this is rare. It must 
be owned that the attitude of the successful author is 
usually one of self-congratulation. — Boston Herald. 

Of me, good sooth, none ever wrote 

"How sharper than a serpent's tooth 
It is to have a thankless pote!" 

For wit ye well, this Tower of Truth 
Had never seen the 1. of d. 

Unless the costly linotyper 
Had set my stuff, that it might be 

Emblazoned in this evening pyper. 

And if the make-up should refuse 

To place my gems as I request, 
Where then would be the motley muse? 

Where then my japery and jest? 
And if the paper mill shut down 

Or leaden type no more were minted, 
Where then would be my fair renown? 

Where I, with priceless pomes unprinted? 
141 



In Other Words 

So say not that the trait is rare; 

Us authors is a grateful crew. 
Our aim is ever to be fair, 

And give the angel all his due: 
Brown's grammar, Noah Webster's tome 

And Walker on Versification 
All help me when I pull a pome — 

My stuff is all collaboration. 

" Ungrateful? " Nay ! My lightest line 

Is due to others more than me. 
No paragraph is wholly mine; 

No verse I own in simple fee. 
If even the cashier himself, 

Some Saturday when I endeavor 
To grab my gold, refused me pelf, 

I'd give up Litrachoor forever. 



142 



Lines in Appreciation of a Lady's Aft 

Madura maid that o'er the stove holdeth 

despotic sway, 
Small is the labor that you do, though great 

your weekly pay, 
Far from a Savarin are you in the role that you 

have picked, 
Tortoni could have beaten you from clams to 

Benedict. 
Nay, I'll make one exception, and one that 

bids me sing 
Your o. f. strob'ry shortcake, a Rare and 

Perfect Thing. 

In many a line of cooking your ineptitude is 

great, 
You have three afternoons a week, you come 

each morning late. 
You burn an awful lot of gas, you waste a lot 

of stuff, 
Your soups are generally weak, your steaks 

are always tough, 
Yet here is to Virginia, the state that gave you 

birth, 
And your o. f. strob'ry short cake, the Finest 

Thing on Earth! 

143 



In Other Words 

Madura maiden, rob a bank, yet should you 

be enthroned, 
Commit a century of crime, yet shall you be 

condoned 
So long as you may build those joys, those 

Benisons of Bliss, 
Whose memory is with me now as I unlimber 

this; 
Whose recollection this here apostrophic stuff 

has stirred 
On your o. f. strob'ry shortcake, which is 

Cooking's Final Word. 



For Commuters Only 

PLAIN APPEARS THE PRINTED WORD 
IN THE LIGHT OF DAY; 

NOT A LETTER OF IT BLURRED- 
IT APPEARS THIS WAY. 

Goin gthr oughtatun nelth ough; 

Lett ersf lyandnit; 
Sylla blesa re wab bly — so — 

Evernoticeit? 



144 



Inept Quotation's Artificial Aid 

It was a friar of orders gray, 
And he stoppeth one of three: 

I chanced to see at break of day 
That not impossible She. 

"I was with Grant — " the stranger said 
By the nine gods he swore — 

For here, forlorn and lost I tread 
Beside a human door. 

Stay, lady, stay for mercy's sake! 

How glazed each weary eye! 
And could I ever keep awake 

Till a' the seas gang dry? 

Love still hath something of the sea, 
In the first sweet sleep of night; 

Whate'er the years may bring to me, 
Fond mem'ry brings the light. 

I hear a voice you cannot hear, 

Beside the Springs of Dove; 
And she is grown so dear, so dear, 

She never told her love. 

145 



In Other Words 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
Look backward with a smile. 

The apparel oft proclaims the man, 
And only man is vile. 

I have set my life upon a cast — 
To die were far more sweet — 

As through on Alpine village passed 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 

To drive dull care away. 
In Venice on the Bridge on Sighs, 

Upon a truss of hay. 

I never saw a purple cow 

Or nursed a dear gazelle; 
When pain and anguish wring the brow 

I only feel Farewell! 

She left us in the bloom of May, 
When night and morning meet, 

Yet some maintain that to this day 
Her voice is low and sweet. 

If this fair rose offend thy sight 

In faery lands forlorn, 
She was a Phantom of Delight 

Breast high amid the corn. 
146 



Inept Quotation's Artificial Aid 

For what avail the plough or sail? 

Men were deceivers ever. 
Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, 

And let who will be clever. 

I prithee send me back my heart, 

Half hidden from the eye; 
'Tis of man's life a thing apart — 

Good-bye, my lover, good-bye! 



147 



Some Speeches 

Now glory to our holy cause, from whence all 

glories spring, 
And glory to our candidate, who stands for 

everything. 
So, gentlemen, I nominate that leader of the 

cause, 
That noble man, that swerveless head, Wis- 
consin's [Great applause]. 

From where the pine-clad hills of Maine in 

fronded beauty stand, 
To where the jagged Rockies reach across this 

lovely land, 
Is heard the name that echoes over valley and 

through chasm, 
The name of — need I mention it — of [Great 

enthusiasm]. 

Ah, gentlemen assembled in this gre-eat con- 
vention hall, 

This land of ours is fairest on the whole 
terrestrial ball; 

And who so fit, from Boston to where rolls the 
Oregon, 

To steer the Ship of State as [Cries of "Louder!" 
and "Go on!"] 

148 



Some Speeches 

That brave, intrepid, fearless, dauntless, wise, 

courageous one, 
That plain and honest Democrat, Rhode 

Island's favorite son, 
Who loathes the predatory rich, the wicked 

trust and grafter, 
That sterling statesman, need I say [Continued 

cheers and laughter]. 

Ohio offers up a name requiring no laudation 
To gain for him the honor of this glorious 

nomination ; 
The choice of all this big broad land is he, to all 

appearing 
I bring the name of William Howard [Loud 
and mighty cheering]. 

But who has put the nation where it proudly 

stands to-day? 
What is the greatest, biggest name in all these 

U. S. A.? 
The name of Theo [Reader, this applause you'll 

have to guess, 
For truly, there be limits to the power of the press]. 



149 



NO TROUBLE TO SHOW GOODS 

[For the benefit of advertisers, present and pros 
pective, it should be stated that these are only a fei 
of the publisher's kinds of type.] 



Speak gently to the printer man, 

His <work is pretty hard; 
Besides, he does the best he can 

To help along a bard. 

O ever ready his response 

To anything we ask. 
Though we demand a hundred font 

He would not curse his task. 
And yet his lot is not a pipe; 

Small wonder he is vexed, 
If we mark this for Jensen type, 

8n& ttjte for Caslon Wtxt. 

ISO 



No Trouble to Show Goods 

Run this, we pray, in Elzevir; 

This in Devinne Slope ; 
Put this in Gothic, plain and clear; 

In Blanchard set this dope. 

Let this line in Long Primer stand, 
And this in Century Bold style; 

This in 8-point John Aldcn, and 

This 1 0-point Cheltenham Old Style- 
In Modern Roman set this here ; 

This goes in regular brevier, 

AND THIS IN AGATE CAPS. 

So do not scorn the printer man 
Whose labor is so tough — 

He does the very best he can 
To help us with our stuff, 



THE END 



151 




The Country Life Press 
Garden City, N. Y. 



UGV 4 191! 



